


At the Wedding

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Human, Bar Owner Gabriel (Supernatural), F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Gabriel isn't expecting to have much fun at Dean's wedding.  Well, mostly he's anticipating feeling left out as all the other guests pair up.Then he meets the Best Man.   Sam Winchester.





	At the Wedding

I slip out of the decorated courtyard, through the country club, and into the parking lot. Ah, quiet. Peace. A break from the pre-wedding chaos. I lean against the hood of my fifteen-year-old Camaro with a sigh.

The ceremony isn't due to start for another thirty minutes, but I've already been here for over an hour. Normally, I would arrive moments before the bride's appearance, but I came with my brother. Cas is a groomsman, so he needed to arrive early. There was really no reason for him to arrive quite so incredibly early, but he wanted to help set up (even though people were hired to do so) and provide moral support to his nervous best friend. Honestly, Cas adores Dean to such a degree that I've occasionally wondered if he's less straight than he pretends.

Not wondering right now. Cas barely glanced at handsome, tuxedo-clad Dean--he was too busy ogling the gorgeous, raven-haired Masters sisters, Meg and Hannah. Didn't take them long to notice. Or to sidle up to him. Mischievous, smirking Meg and sweet, serene Hannah both flirting with my baby brother. I can forget about spending the reception entertaining Cas with gossipy, innuendo-laden whispers about our fellow wedding-goers. Nope. Looks like I'll be sitting literally on the sidelines. Alone.

I think I need something stronger than fresh air.

I dig around in my pocket until my fingers close around a thin stick. Here we go. I pull the lollipop out, unwrap it, pop it in my mouth. Cherry-lime. Bliss. Sugary bliss. My eyes drop shut.

"Got any more?" It's the groom, himself. Dean is restlessly patting his pockets, tapping his fingers, rubbing his fingers together, casting longing glances at a group of smokers several yards away. He's in clear need of a distraction from his cravings.

"Sure, yeah." I fish one out, hand it to him. Hope he likes orange-raspberry. 

I suspect it's a poor substitute for the nicotine his jittery, over-excited body is begging for, but he looks content enough, relaxing beside me against my car.

It reminds me of the day we leveled up from acquaintances to friends.

*

One Saturday afternoon, five years ago, Cas invited us both over to his apartment to watch the Jayhawks game. Midway through the second quarter, he disappeared into the kitchen to make sliders. Dean and I perched awkwardly on either end of the couch. I knew he was a mechanic with a preference for fixing up classic cars. He knew I owned a bar downtown with a theme that's a little bit Norse, a little bit country. We discussed the players and the opposing team (and the refs) at length when Cas was sitting between us. So, really, what was there to talk about?

After shifting his position and clearing his throat a few times, Dean seemed to come to same conclusion. He shook a smoke out of a pack located in the pocket of the leather jacket he dropped over the arm of his side of the couch, stuck it in his mouth, grabbed a silver lighter, and . . . .

"You are NOT smoking that in here, Dean Winchester!" Mild-mannered Cas can produce quite the volume when he wants to. Plus, he was in the kitchen. How did he even know?--Can he see through walls?

Dean and I gaped at each other for a moment, before he called, "Yeah, okay, whatever, I'm going," while heading out the French doors onto the balcony. It was a pleasant fall day, so I lifted the tray of cookies, eclairs, and tarts that was my snack contribution, and followed.

Dean flopped onto a patio chair, lit up. I settled carefully on the other one, arranging the tray of goodies on my lap. There followed a couple of minutes of near silence, the only noises my chewing and his inhaling, exhaling. 

"I'm thinking of breaking up with Lisa," he said abruptly.

"What?" I had good reason to be shocked. Dean and Lisa had been living together for the past year. She was exactly his type: model-thin, beautiful, brunette. He treated her son like his own (and there were rumors that Ben was exactly that). Cas and I had been predicting engagement announcements. Not a break-up.

"She's perfect, you know?" He continued, thoughtfully. "Exactly what I thought I wanted. But I'm just not that into her." He shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

I nodded before I realized, spoke before I could stop myself. "I know what you mean. I thought Kali was the one. She's gorgeous and brilliant and complicated. I thought life with her would be amazing." I paused, finished off a peach tart. "But, something's missing."

He sent me a half-smile. "Yeah, I think I'd better tell her it's not working." 

I nodded again. "Me, too."

"And maybe expand my horizons." He finished his cigarette, stole a chocolate-chip cookie from my tray.

I grinned. "Same." 

He grinned back. "There are lots of different kinds of girls." He raised his hand for a high five.

I frowned, muttered, "Maybe not girls." My face flamed.

He clapped my shoulder. "There are lots of different kinds of boys, too."

I wished I had a drink to toast him with. "True."

He stood up. "And I really need to quit smoking. The right kind of girl might not like it." He winked.

Good thing I wasn't particularly attracted to Dean, because that wink clearly could be lethal for those that were. "I hear you. I need to cut back on my sugar intake." I gestured to the dessert tray in my hands. "I'm starting to look like I'm pregnant." My stomach was far rounder than I liked. "Maybe I could switch to something that takes longer to eat, so I don't eat as much. Like lollipops."

He laughed. "Let's do it. To new leafs!"

When he raised his hand for a five that time, I slapped it enthusiastically.

*

An engine rumbles in the distance, growing louder as it zooms closer to the club. I'm not surprised when a Harley curves into the parking lot, coasting to a stop not far from us. The bike glows in the afternoon sun, black paint shining, capturing mirrored images of the colorful cars surrounding it. Her tall, lean rider is nearly as bright in his sleek ebony leather jacket, matching boots, black helmet.

"There he is!" Beside me, Dean straightens, heads toward the mysterious newcomer.

He slides off his bike, the black material of his slacks stretching delightfully over muscular thighs. Just as Dean gets close to him, he pulls off his helmet, shakes a mane of thick, wavy dark chestnut hair. "Hey," he greets the groom with a low voice, a gentle smile. "You ready?"

"Definitely." Dean's smile is blinding as newcomer throws long arms around him, squeezing him tightly, affectionately.

It clicks. This is Dean's brilliant, workaholic, lawyer younger brother. Sam. Who I've never met because he always seems to be working on a case when I hang out with Dean and Cas.

Sam lets go of his brother so he can shrug out of his leather jacket, revealing the Best Man tux he's wearing beneath. Then he swiftly, methodically replaces his boots with sparkling new dress shoes previously hidden in a handy messenger bag. I close the mouth that dropped open upon his arrival, smirk. That bag makes Sam less dangerous biker boy, more intellectual geek. And more attractive than ever.

Especially now that he's turned enough that I can see his face. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a lovely but indeterminate color. Hazel, maybe? They seem to change shade whenever he shifts position. Strong, defined jaw dusted in deliberate stubble. Soft-looking red lips.

My mouth is hanging open again. My half-finished lollipop slips from my fingers, falls to the asphalt with a ping.

Both Winchesters gape at me, their affectionate, pre-wedding discussion forgotten.

"Oh, hey," Dean says, "you haven't met Gabriel, have you?"

He shakes his head, brown tendrils fluttering around his beautiful face. "No, I haven't." He examines me. "Cas' brother, right?"

Why did I think a maroon silk button-down was a good idea? It accentuates my small stature, undefined arms, stubbornly soft (though, thankfully, no longer protruding) stomach. At least the color works with my skin tone. "I'm the older and better Novak," I confirm, looking up (and up--he has to be four inches taller than his huge big brother) to brazenly meet his gaze.

I rewarded with an amused almost-smile, a thorough once-over, a hand that gently caresses mine as we shake.

*

A contemporary arrangement of the Wedding March starts to play and Donna appears, miles of ivory satin framing her full, glorious curves, delicate veil topping her golden curls, giant smile lighting up the courtyard, like a second sun graciously warming the earth.

When Dean decided to expand his horizons past brunette model-types, he fell for almost the exact opposite in the cheerful, blonde, beautifully rounded, occasionally ribald sheriff of a small town. Get him a bit tipsy and he'll explain why designers have it wrong about which are the most gorgeous women--over which women should grace magazine covers. Because his Donna is the most stunning woman he's ever met.

His currant slack-jawed, dark-eyed gape at his bride indicates his view on the subject hasn't changed. Sam grins beside him, claps his shoulder, whispers something (a joke? encouragement? congratulations on a pretty bride?).

Sam listens intently to Donna's father (he got ordinated through some website just so he could officiate his daughter's wedding), wipes away an occasional tear, grins under watery eyes, guffaws once, hands over the rings, and next thing I know the ceremony's over. Dean kisses Donna possessively, leads her down the aisle. Sam offers his arm to the Maid of Honor, Donna's best friend and fellow female sheriff, Jody Mills. She's resplendent in her purple bridesmaid's gown. Cas follows with Meg, who shoots her jealous sister a gloating smirk. Last in line are Dean's gangly dentist friend Garth, nervously escorting flame-haired coroner Rowena.

I don't think I heard a word Mr. Hanscum said.

*

I resist eating more than one (tiny) slice of wedding cake by popping another lollipop. Pina colada. Tasty. But, oh, I do want to fill my belly with sugary, fatty goodness. There's so much leftover cake just sitting there. Someone should eat it . . . .

"Want to dance?"

My lollipop falls out of my mouth. Sam catches it by the stick, hands it back to me, laughs. His face glimmers with amusement, curiosity, fondness(?). I want to make him laugh again. Every day. Forever. "Weeeelll," I drawl, "'this is an awesome song. Would hate for it to got waste." I set my candy on my plate, grab Sam's hand, march to the area of the courtyard left clear of tables.

Mr, and Mrs. Dean Winchester press tightly together, swaying gently, staring into each other's eyes, heedless of the beat. A few feet away from them, Cas is involved in an intricate three-way dance with both Masters sisters. Meg and Hannah occasionally bump into each other, step in front of each other, make each other stumble. Glare, flip their hair, smile at Cas. Whose crinkling blue eyes betray exactly how much he's enjoying the attention. Rowena has enticed a rich-looking relative of Donna's into a waltz so graceful that I wonder if she ever studied ballet.

Sam tugs me close to his warm chest, grips my hip, moves me to the slow beat. I gasp at this casual display of dominance, my slacks tightening. Even when I was still dating girls, I had a preference for strong personalities. Kali was always ordering me around. But to be with someone who can also physically manhandle me . . . . My breath catches as my brain helpfully supplies a video a naked Sam throwing me on a bed, jumping on top, tying my wrists to the headboard. Is it hot out here?

"So, you own a bar, right?" He's making polite conversation. Like the gentleman I know he is (but, apparently, don't always want him to be).

"Dean tell you that?" Please let it be true that my friend has been talking about me with his sexy little (not at all little) brother.

He spins me, grins down at me. Are my thoughts displayed on my face? "Yeah," he says, adds, "Tell me about your most bizarre customer."

"Okay," I reply, "So, one of our regulars is a contractor of some sort and about once a month, he announces that this is it: he's going to quit his job, leave his wife, and move to Tahiti. Then, he spends the rest of the night singing songs about the beach or the tropics or whatever before drinking himself into a stupor." The song we're dancing to ends, replaced by a slightly faster one. Sam squeezes me tighter, quickens his pace. "The funny thing is that he loves his wife. And his job. Most nights he gushes about them." I pause to catch my breath. Talking while dancing plus Sam's proximity equals a rapid heartbeat. "And the best part is that his wife has been begging him to take he to Tahiti for years. He has all the vacation time saved up but he just won't go." I shake my head. "Crazy."

"I have a client kind of like that," Sam responds, lips quirking into a half smile. "He keeps telling me he's going to stop shoplifting, get a real job, but he never does. He craves the excitement, I think. It gives him a high. And he tells me that he can give his wife prettier things this way, a nicer apartment." Sam spins me again. "Then he almost gets convicted and he gets scared and morose again." A grin. "It's a never-ending cycle."

A beat. We pause our dancing, stare at each other. Consider the bizarre contradictions of human nature. We laugh. We keep laughing.

*

Tendrils of burnt orange sunset fight futilely against the encroaching night, overwhelmed by deep, velvety indigo. Sam's eyes alter shade once more, darkening to near black, mimicking the sky. He glances around the well-lit, nearly empty parking lot. "Looks like we're the last ones here."

We've been loitering by my car, talking for I don't know how long. Since Dean helped his new wife into his Impala, pealed off for their honeymoon. They're planning to drive to Miami (Dean hates flying) but, knowing them, it wouldn't at all surprise me if they wind up spending their two weeks in New Orleans, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia. Or the hotel room they booked for tonight. Their guests trickled out after them. Cas didn't leave with either Masters sister. Still, the way his eyes widened when Meg stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, the way he touched the spot after, tells me that Hannah doesn't have a chance.

"I think we are." I think even the hired help finished packing away all vestiges of a wedding, drove away some time ago. "We should probably . . . ."

Lips descend on mine, interrupting my sentence and train of thought. Sam's lips are warm, soft, urgent. The hands cupping my face huge, masterful. The body against mine all hard, rippling muscle. I melt. My back hits the side of my car, Sam crowding me against the cool metal, surrounding me on all sides.

Cold air. Sam's backing away, pressing something into my hand before releasing it, climbing on his motorcycle, zooming off.

I shiver.

He's gone. Gone. Just like that. Will I see him again? What did he give me? I drop my eyes to the item clenched in my fist. A scrap of paper ripped from one of the programs. With writing on the back. "Sam," followed by a phone number and "Call me."

I'm whistling as I drive home.


End file.
